03 - Evolution (25 page)

Michael!

It was even worse than she remembered. At least a foot
of rusty metal jutted from Michael’s chest. His body was limp and still,
his arms drooping at his sides. His agonized groans had fallen silent.
His eyes, reverting to their mortal brown tint, stared blankly at the
pier above them.

“Michael…” She gently lifted him off the impaling iron
beam and laid him down on the wooden planks along the shore. Bending
over him, she laid her hand against his cheek, hoping to get a response.
Her fingers searched for a pulse. “Michael!”

It was no use. His chest had been torn to shreds, with a
gaping hole where his heart should have been. Not even an Elder could
survive such a wound.

Michael was dead.

“No!” Anger, an emotion she knew far better than grief,
rushed over her. “Damn you!” She fell to her knees beside the body. Her
clenched fists pounded upon his ravaged chest, coming away stained with
his blood. Tears gushed from her eyes, mixing with the cold water
dripping from her hair. Six hundred years of loss and heartbreak surged
up inside her, spilling over the dams she had erected around her heart.
Violent sobs racked her body.

“Fuck!”

“Hello, Father.”

Alexander Corvinus recognized his son’s voice, even
after centuries. The voice approached him from behind, Marcus having
dropped through the shattered skylight into the office. Broken glass
crunched beneath the intruder’s feet, grinding the brittle fragments
into the carpet.

In his hand, Corvinus held the second half of the key,
the one he had extracted from Viktor’s rib cage. Facing his father’s
back, Marcus could not see the key. Corvinus prayed he never would.

“You are unwelcome in my presence,” Corvinus said
sternly.

He turned to face his son, but the vital key was no
longer in evidence. To his slight surprise, he saw that Marcus looked
like the son he remembered, not the hybrid abomination described by
Selene. His beard and hair were the same reddish tint they had always
been. A leather overcoat was draped over his bare shoulders, concealing
his wings. Corvinus recognized his son’s cruel, sardonic smile. He
wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or dismayed by Marcus’ deceptively
human appearance.

“Ah, the predictable heart that never thaws,” his son
said mockingly. He placed his hand atop his chest, as though wounded to
the core. “Pity it beats within such a fool. The eldest of the
immortals, yet you’ve made no attempt to seize your destiny.”

The ancient broadsword rested on the desk between them.
The carved goddess upon the wall was the sole witness to their reunion.
In hopes of sparing their lives, Corvinus had ordered the ship’s staff
and guards to evacuate the vessel. What transpired now was between him
and Marcus alone.

As it was always meant to be.

“We are oddities of nature, you and I. Nothing more.” He
leveled a disapproving gaze upon his son. “This is a world for
humanity.”

Marcus sneered at him. “And that petty sentiment
explains why you rejected your sons? Why you stood by for over half a
millennium as William suffered alone in darkness?” Contempt registered
in his voice. “No Father. I have no respect for your pitiful excuse.” He
stepped forward ominously, circling around the desk. “Viktor’s key.
Where is it?”

“Whatever plan you have for William is futile.” Corvinus
did not quail in the face of his son’s advance. “You cannot control your
brother.”

Lord knows I tried,
he
thought sadly,
before William’s bloodlust grew
beyond all control.

“I am stronger now,” Marcus replied, “and our bond is
greater than you have ever wanted to acknowledge.”

The same old delusion,
Corvinus mused. Marcus had never been able to recognize the truth about
his beloved twin. “You’re wrong. Soon you will be drowning in
lycans… just like before.”

Marcus shook his head. “Not lycans, Father, or vampires.
A new race, created in the image of their maker… their new god. Me.”

Fervor burned in his eyes, and Corvinus realized that
his son had truly gone mad.

“And a true god… has no father.”

Corvinus reached for his sword, but he had waited too
long… perhaps intentionally. Marcus’ wings unfurled, the unnatural sight
causing Corvinus’ eyes to widen in amazement. A demonic pinion snapped
outward, knocking the older man against the starboard wall. A
spear-tipped talon pierced his shoulder, pinning him to the solid steel
bulkhead.

Immortal blood flowed from his injured shoulder, but
Corvinus had survived worse in his time. He grunted in pain, but refused
to beg for his life, not even when he saw Marcus lift the heavy
broadsword with one hand. He was still Alexander Corvinus, and he would
not give Marcus the satisfaction of seeing his father tremble in fear.

My death is long overdue,
he
thought.
Let me face it with dignity.

There was nothing dignified about the hate-filled
expression on Marcus’ face as he slowly drove the point of the sword
through his father’s chest. Despite his resolve, Corvinus could not help
gasping out loud as the double-edged blade sliced through his body inch
by excruciating inch. The sword cut through bone and tissue alike.

Was I truly too slow to defend
myself,
Corvinus wondered,
or was it that I
simply could not bring myself to slay my son—not even to save my own
life?

He suspected the latter.

Marcus thrust the entire length of the blade into his
father, all the way up to the hilt. Only then did he withdraw his left
wing from his victim’s shoulder. Coughing up blood, Corvinus slumped
against the steel bulkhead, held up by the broadsword alone. As he
writhed upon the blade, his son reached into his wool coat and began
searching Corvinus’ pockets.

Forgive me, Viktor,
Corvinus
thought in despair. The deceased Elder had been a liar and a hypocrite,
but at least he had understood the importance of keeping William locked
away from the world.
You hid it better than I.

Marcus’ eyes lit up with malevolent glee. Grinning
evilly at his father, he plucked the key from an inside pocket.
Corvinus’ dying heart sank at the sight; he had no doubt that, despite
Selene’s best efforts, Marcus had already obtained the pendant and the
location of William’s hidden prison. Now his insane son had it all… and
all of humanity was in danger.

“You will fail,” Corvinus said, looking into his son’s
eyes.

But Marcus wasn’t quite done with him yet. Tucking the
key into the pocket of his overcoat, he turned to face his father once
more. It was time to deliver the coup de grâce.

The talons of both wings sprang forward, converging on
the old man’s heart.

Whirring blades sliced through the air as the
helicopter touched down on the ship’s landing pad. Peering from the
cockpit, Samuel could have told at once that they had a situation on
their hands, even if they hadn’t already received an emergency distress
signal from the
Sancta Helena.
Dead guards
littered the deck, along with blood and empty shells. A gaping hole had
been torn in the dock alongside the ship, while the broken skylight
testified that even the sanctity of Macaro’s private office had been
violated.

The
Sancta Helena
had
obviously come under attack. Samuel feared that he and his men had
arrived too late. Was the Old Man still alive?

Rifles and machine guns ready, the Cleaners piled out of
the copter and raced toward the ops center. They found the corridors of
the ship strangely deserted, which suggested that most of the crew and
staff had managed to escape the assault. Samuel dared to hope that
Macaro might be among the survivors, but in his heart he knew otherwise.
Their commander was definitely one who would want to go down with his
ship.

Leading the way, Samuel rushed through the abandoned ops
center and up the stairs to the palatial suite. A quick glance confirmed
the worst: Macaro sat slumped against one wall, barely breathing. A
bright red streak upon the steel bulkhead testified to how the Old Man
had slid onto the floor. A bloodstained broadsword rested on the
polished wooden planks a few feet away, its grisly work accomplished.
Scanning the office, Samuel spotted the inert body of another Cleaner
sprawled atop the mahogany desk. Colin Langely, he believed, although
the corpse’s mutilated face threw some doubt on the matter.

“Look sharp!” he ordered his team. Searching the office,
they quickly determined that the enemy was no longer present. Then, and
only then, did Samuel hurry to see to Macaro. A look of horror
transformed the soldier’s usually impassive features as he registered
the full extent of his commander’s injuries. Gaping wounds perforated
Macaro’s chest, many of them passing all the way through the man’s body.
A crimson froth bubbled up from his punctured lungs. Blood pooled
beneath him, seeping through the cracks in the hardwood floor. His face
was drawn and pale. Pain showed in his ageless gray eyes.

Samuel was one of the few operatives Macaro had trusted
with the secret of his true identity. The Cleaner realized that any
other man would already be dead by now; only Macaro’s immortal nature
had kept him alive so far.

But for how much longer?

Samuel found it hard to believe that even Alexander
Corvinus could survive such grievous wounds. Urgently, he called for a
first-aid kit and started applying pressure to the worst of the sucking
chest wounds. If he could just stop the bleeding, maybe there was still
a chance to save him!

Macaro waved him away. “No,” he insisted. “The time has
come, my friend.” Gasping for breath, he hurriedly explained the nature
of the threat posed by Marcus. “Find the girl.” He coughed up blood.
“Bring her to me.”

Beneath the pier, Selene tried hopelessly to
revive Michael. Her blood had saved him once before; perhaps it could do
so again? She squeezed her hand, forcing the blood to stream from her
wounded palm onto the gaping wounds in Michael’s chest, which
nevertheless stubbornly refused to heal. In desperation, she pressed her
bleeding palm to his lips.
Drink,
she
pleaded with him silently.
Drink, please.

His lips were cold to her touch. His mouth did not
welcome the blood.

It was no use. Michael was past saving.

Hunched over his body, she cradled his head with one
arm. Only days ago, she recalled, Michael had tended her own wounds
beneath a similar pier, after he’d rescued her from a sinking car.
Perhaps he would have been better off letting her die; in the end, she
had brought him nothing but a violent death.

Fresh tears streaked her face as she wept openly. It was
all too much. She had lost everything, including any last hope for
happiness. She felt as though her own future had died with Michael.

Caught up in her grief, she didn’t even hear the
Cleaners coming down the steps until their flashlight beams cut through
the darkness below the dock. A hand landed on her shoulder and she spun
around violently, knocking the hand away. She sprang to her feet and
raised her gun.

The leader of the Cleaners stepped back and raised his
hands to signal that he didn’t want a fight. “No, wait.” Behind him, his
men lowered their weapons. Selene held her fire, but kept her gun ready.
As far as she knew, Corvinus’ soldiers were not her enemy, but she
wasn’t about to take any chances.

“Well?” she demanded hoarsely. Her throat ached from
sobbing.

“My name is Samuel,” the lead Cleaner identified
himself. “If you want Marcus, you’ll need Alexander’s help.”

Marcus!
The Elder’s name
inspired a burst of volcanic rage. Selene realized that she still had
one thing left to live for: stopping Marcus and avenging Michael’s
death. But to destroy the hybrid Elder she would need all the assistance
she could get.

She nodded, then glanced down at Michael.

“We’re not leaving him here.”

The opulent suite had changed little since
Selene had last seen it, aside from the bloodstains on the wall and the
gore-covered sword lying upon the floor. She found Corvinus propped up
against one wall, surrounded by his own immortal blood. A museum-quality
medieval dagger rested upon his lap.

She could tell at glance that he was at death’s door.
His face had taken on a grayish cast and he was breathing with great
difficulty. Her mind reeled at the very idea of the near-mythical
Alexander Corvinus succumbing to death at last, but now was not the time
to dwell on the historic significance of the moment. According to
Samuel, the ancient warlord had only a short time left to live. They had
to make it count.

“Did he get the pendant?” he gasped.

Selene remembered Marcus wrenching his prize away from
Michael. “Yes.”

“He is too powerful for you alone,” Corvinus said,
unsurprised by her admission.

It took her a moment to realize what he had in mind. Her
gaze darted at the waiting dagger.

“You’re the only one older than he is,” she protested,
“the only one stronger. You could have killed him yourself.”

Corvinus shook his head. “No matter what he has
become… he is my son.”

“Well, he’s not mine.”

He nodded grimly. “You are the last hope left,” he told
her. Selene wondered if he had even tried to defend himself. “There is
only one way to defeat him.” Picking up the dagger, he drew the tip of
the blade across his wrist. A crimson line seeped up from beneath his
skin. “Quickly now, before there is no more legacy left in my veins.”

Selene recalled offering her own wrist to Michael only
one night ago. Her heart ached at the realization that her sacrifice had
only kept her lover alive for another twenty-four hours or so. She hoped
that Corvinus’ blood would not be similarly wasted.